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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26267434">Irrevocably Yours</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776'>startraveller776</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Espionage and Intrigue [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Suspense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:08:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26267434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months after she cut ties with her fiancé, the man who killed her brother in the name of crown and country, Elizabeth Hughes has finally stopped looking over her shoulder. She has a new life in a new country, a new name, and a new hair color. He would have found her by now, if he had wanted to. Right? <strong>(PERPETUALLY INCOMPLETE)</strong></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Espionage and Intrigue [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unwelcome Guest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>There will be no further updates to this story. Read at your own peril.</strong>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She woke with a start. Gasping. Heart racing.</p>
<p>It was a dream. It had to have been. He couldn’t possibly have been in her room, brushing her hair away from her cheek as she lay in repose.</p>
<p>
  <em>Wake up, darling. Breakfast is on.</em>
</p>
<p>His soft, deep timbre echoed in her thoughts, a specter from the nebulous place between slumber and the first rays of consciousness. The place where reality and fantasy wove together in a seamless jumble.</p>
<p>She rubbed at the chills prickling her arms. Eight months. Eight months since she pushed the engagement ring across the table toward him. Eight months since she bought a new identity. Changed her hair. Changed her country.</p>
<p>Eight months and he still haunted her.</p>
<p>With a sigh, she massaged the knot at the base of her neck as she slid out of bed. Time heals all wounds, the saying went. Exactly how many more months to dim the memory of her brother, the traitor? How many years before she forgot the man who had killed him—the man who had traced languid shapes against her bare skin as he recited Shakespeare’s twenty-seventh sonnet?</p>
<p>Too many.</p>
<p>No. Not these thoughts again. Not today. Turning her recent past upside down and inside out, taking it apart bit by shattered bit, wasn’t going to erase any of it.</p>
<p>She wished she could.</p>
<p>
  <em>Thunk.</em>
</p>
<p>Her hand froze in the act of reaching for her dressing gown hanging from the back of her bedroom door. What was that? She held her breath. Seconds ticked away with only the sound of her drumming pulse, and she shook her head. She blamed her sudden paranoia on the dream.</p>
<p>Tea. As much as she had embraced the customary habits of her new home—a coffee and bagel in the mornings, calling her place an apartment rather than a flat—today she needed familiar comforts to settle her nerves. A nice cuppa with the milk in last. (Because milk first had been <em>his</em> preference.) Decided, she slipped the dressing gown over her shoulders and drifted down the hall, hardwood floors creaking softly beneath her bare feet.</p>
<p>In retrospect, she would remember smelling first the thin aroma of food cooking, but the human brain had a way of rejecting any input that did not fall within expected parameters. Which was why, when she reached the threshold leading to the rest of the apartment, she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to silence an involuntary scream.</p>
<p>The man who had torn her life apart stood in her kitchen, humming as he divvied out eggs between a pair of plates. For a heartbeat, this casual image was transposed with a dozen pictures of other lazy Sunday mornings where he would sing slightly off-key as he fixed her a full English. Ridiculous songs like “The Bear Necessities” or “The Man in the Mirror.” He had said laughter was the only way to start the day and her laughter was the best start of all.</p>
<p>Why couldn’t he have actually been that man?</p>
<p>He wasn’t, though. He never would be. Reality cut through the haze of memory and old hopes. She blinked away the sting of tears, spurned into action by anger and betrayal. And fear. She crept back toward her room, cringing each time a floorboard squeaked beneath her weight.</p>
<p>With shaking hands, she pulled open the drawer in her nightstand, relieved to see the black Glock lying on top of odds and ends. She hated the feel of it in her hands, hated the remembrance of Tom in chains, serenely staring down the barrel of a similar weapon as he explained why he had taken Avery’s life.</p>
<p>She inched down the hall again, pistol forward, finger on the trigger. Cold sweat pooled at the small of her back as she cautiously, quietly peeked into the kitchen. He wasn’t there and for a trembling breath she thought she might have hallucinated him in the first place.</p>
<p>But then he stepped around the fridge and glanced at her, affording her a bare smile as he said, “You’re up.”</p>
<p>Startled, she squeezed the trigger. She hadn’t meant to. She’d only meant to scare him off—if psychopaths could be scared off. He’d been right before; she wasn’t a killer. Not like him. These thoughts blazed through her mind between the press of her fingertip against the sliver of metal and the hollow click of the firing pin.</p>
<p>Click. Not a boom of ignited gunpowder. Not a recoil from the velocity of led exiting the chamber.</p>
<p>Tom plucked the gun from her hands, giving her a flat look. “Now, darling, is that any way to greet your estranged fiancé?” He tucked the weapon behind his back in the waistband of his fitted trousers. With a reproachful tsk, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bullet between his forefinger and thumb. “I had hoped removing these would prove unnecessary. I’m horribly disappointed.”</p>
<p>“Get out,” she breathed, backing away from him.</p>
<p>His brow furrowed as though he were pained. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” He seemed sincerely regretful, but weren’t all spies as disciplined in acting as they were in impassive brutality?</p>
<p>“As much as I enjoy seeing you like this again,” he said, tongue grazing across his bottom lip as he took in her scant attire of vest and knickers underneath her open dressing gown, “you really ought to get dressed before our breakfast gets cold.”</p>
<p>She stared at him. “You’re joking,” she said in voice laced with incredulity. “You’re absolutely mad.”</p>
<p>He raised a brow, his answering grin just the tiniest bit indulgent. “About you? Well, yes, of course.” He made as if to step toward her, but stopped himself. “As for your clothes, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. We can have a nice little row once you’ve made yourself presentable.”</p>
<p>The man was completely mental if he thought he could order her about after breaking into her flat! But then again, even if he were truly insane, he still had the skills of an expert assassin. At this unsettling clarity, her heart pounded, its cadence thick with escalating fear.</p>
<p>“All right, Tom,” she replied, keeping her voice level. “I’ll get changed.”</p>
<p>He shook his head with a sigh, as though he was not at all pleased with her sudden acquiescence. “Thank you, darling.” He turned toward the kitchen and, without glancing back at her, added, “I really am very sorry about all of this.”</p>
<p>His apology sent a twinge through her chest. It was achingly reminiscent of <em>her</em> Tom—Tom Jones, the self-effacing investment banker who could go from debating philosophy to beating the high score on <em>Dance Dance Revolution</em> in the same night.</p>
<p>But her Tom had never existed. And she despised this Tom all the more for crafting that ruse.</p>
<p>Clothing was not her first priority when she returned to her room. She scoured the cluttered top of her nightstand, dug through the drawer, searched the floor under her bed. He’d taken it. The bastard had taken her phone. She sat back on her heels and let out a wet laugh. Of course he had. What sort of spy would he be if he didn’t consider every contingency?</p>
<p>As she dressed, an odd sort of calm washed over her. Panic still curled on the periphery, still quaked in her hands, though it no longer consumed her. Because she had a plan—a sparse one lacking vital details, but it was enough. She chose her attire based on utility. Jumper, jeans, and trainers. Her now brunette hair went up into a hasty bun.</p>
<p>She inhaled a measured breath before exiting her room.</p>
<p>Tom sat at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen, sipping his tea while scanning the newspaper—folded just so because only amateurs held the entire thing open as they read. She used to find it incredibly dapper; she had been giddy with the idea of capturing the attention of a man who knew how to be a man. Now, however, she realized the compact way he absorbed the morning news was more about keeping his line of sight unimpeded than merely playing the role of discerning businessman.</p>
<p>He glanced up as she took a seat across from him. She wished he wouldn’t smile at her that way—as if they were about to engage in an easy conversation about the day’s schedule. As if he hadn’t hunted her down and was now politely holding her hostage. She wished her heart wouldn’t flutter in a perverse type of muscle memory as his eyes traveled over her in unhurried perusal. She couldn’t entirely convince her body that this man was an utter stranger, no matter how intimately familiar she was with his expressions, his mannerisms. With other things as well.</p>
<p>“The dark hair is lovely,” he said, “though I’ll admit I have a certain fondness for the blonde.”</p>
<p>She did as well. After so many months, she still hadn’t quite acclimated to her new name and looks. Administrative assistant Helen Scott with chestnut locks was a far cry from fair-haired Elizabeth Hughes, technician at a pharmaceutical lab. She longed for the latter, but she’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.</p>
<p>“It’s not a proper fry up,” he went on with a gesture toward her plate, “but we’ll make do.”</p>
<p>She gave her meal a dubious scan. Eggs, toast, sausage. No potatoes. No beans. No mushrooms. No fried tomato. Had he slipped something in it?</p>
<p>“It’s only breakfast, darling,” he said, though his smile had become tight in the corners. “Dig in. You’ll need all of your wits about you.” Cordial, but nonetheless a command.</p>
<p>Her stomach made an acrid twist as she picked up her fork and knife. She doubted her ability to keep anything down, not with this acute anxiety coursing through her veins, but she had to play along with his cryptic game. For now.</p>
<p>He watched her take a nibble of toast before turning to his own meal. Why this farce, this caricature of the happy couple they used to be? Was this his macabre way of wooing her—by forcing her to reenact one of their traditions? He had to know the futility of it.</p>
<p>She said nothing, though, as she ate methodically, bite by tasteless bite. He seemed equally uninterested in conversation, light or otherwise. In the oppressive stillness, she found herself making a furtive study of him. His hair was lighter than before—not quite the pale blonde hers had been, but close. Was this his natural color? A dusting of stubble covered his chin and jaw as though he’d skipped his morning shave. What drew her attention, however, was the faint discoloration beneath his left eye—the bare tint of saffron in his peach complexion. A cut, nearly healed, made a small crimson line in the center.</p>
<p>He returned her bold stare with a rueful grin. “Ah, yes,” he said, pointing to the fading injury. “An unfortunate byproduct of my line of work. You should see the other fellow.” He winked as though physical altercations were something to have a laugh over.</p>
<p>But that was exactly what they were to him, weren’t they? Just a part of his job description. Completely unremarkable.</p>
<p>She didn’t want to think about the nameless other fellow. Tom sat before her, alive and relatively unscathed, which surely did not bode well for his rival. She imagined there had been many opponents during his time in covert operations. Had any of them survived their skirmishes with him? Or had he dispatched them all in the same manner with which he had dealt with her brother?</p>
<p>Sweet Avery. Traitorous Avery. She hadn’t witnessed his violent demise, though she had visualized it dozens of times, dreamt of it more. Made all the more horrible when she recalled Tom’s strange behavior that night.</p>
<p>“Let’s get out of here,” he’d said after waking her with the gentle caress of his fingers against her cheek. “Let’s elope.”</p>
<p>She’d laughed at him, called him a nutter for entertaining the notion she might agree to any wedding that didn’t feature her brother walking her down the aisle. “You’re right,” Tom agreed, his voice hollow, distant. “I’m being a selfish prat.” He took her hands in his, kissed each of them before holding them against his chest. His heart thrummed erratically under her palms.</p>
<p>“Tell me you love me, Liz,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll marry me.”</p>
<p>A week later, she sat down with the inspector in charge to view a snippet of security footage recovered from corrupted video files—files thought to have been inexorably destroyed by a particularly insidious virus. Did she know the man on the screen, the inspector asked her. No, she wanted to answer. She didn’t know this man who pocketed a knife. Who raked his fingers through his hair as he turned in an aimless circle. Who looked heavenward with a lost expression before jogging off screen—toward home. Toward her.</p>
<p>She had never known him at all.</p>
<p>She squeezed her eyes closed to block the unwanted tears, to shut out the agonizing flashback. “What are we doing here, Tom?” she asked, sagging in her chair as she brought her gaze to meet his.</p>
<p>He took a sip of his tea, scrutinized her over the brim of the cup with an unnerving intensity. “Having a pleasant Sunday morning together, I thought.” He raised a brow at her glare. “No? It’s just as well.”</p>
<p>A knock at the door cut off any response she might have made. Frowning, she gave him a questioning look, but he only shrugged in return. “Hadn’t you better get that?” he said.</p>
<p>She remained where she was, afraid of what might await her on the other side of the steel-enforced wood. The rapping became louder, more insistent. And then:</p>
<p>“Helen? Are you in there?”</p>
<p>James. Her neighbor from across the hall. She shot up from her chair, overwhelmed with relief. This was her chance, the diversion she needed to get away from Tom. She could tell James that she was in danger and he’d—</p>
<p>Tom was close on her heels as she made for the door. He’d never let her go—not until he was finished with whatever lurid scheme he had in store for her. What would he do to James if he interfered? With sinking resignation, she decided she couldn’t risk an innocent man’s life by getting him involved.</p>
<p>James wasn’t part of her plan, after all.</p>
<p>She wore an exaggerated smile as she pulled the door open. “I’m here. Is everything all right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I was—” James stopped abruptly when his gaze drifted to the tall man behind her. “I was just about to ask you the same thing, actually. But it looks like I’m interrupting something, so…” He raised his hands and stepped back.</p>
<p>No, no, no. Don’t go, she wanted to say. Not without me. I’m not the least bit all right.</p>
<p>“Please, do come in. We’d love some company.” Tom’s smile was distressingly authentic—the sort of effortless geniality she had once believed to be one of his innate character traits. Before she learned it was merely a weapon in his vast arsenal of manipulation.</p>
<p>“I’m sure he’s got better things to do than have a sit with a pair of boring old friends.” The misdirection passed over her tongue with surprising ease. Unadulterated admiration flickered in Tom’s eyes, and she felt ill. More from her involuntary gratification at his approval. The man had right and truly wrecked her.</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” he said. “He went through all that trouble to check in on you. I think a little hospitality is the least we can offer such a concerned neighbor. Wouldn’t you agree—” he turned to her acquaintance, “—James?”</p>
<p>She inhaled sharply, though James seemed only mildly perturbed by Tom’s offhand use of his name—a name which hadn’t been mentioned. How much of her life had he delved into? How long had he been stalking her before he decided to reveal himself?</p>
<p>Had there ever been a hope of escaping him? Or had that been a fiction as well?</p>
<p>She loathed the infinitesimal part of her which took diseased pleasure in his single-minded pursuit of her. “You are mine,” he’d told her after their last volatile encounter, “just as I am irrevocably yours.” If she didn’t rigidly quell the unwelcome thrill his promise inspired, she would become a casualty to Stockholm Syndrome.</p>
<p>James cleared his throat. A fine bead of sweat slid down the side of his temple. What a peculiar thing for her to notice. “If it won’t be an intrusion—” he began, stepping inside, though joining them seemed to be the last thing he wanted to do.</p>
<p>“Not at all,” Tom said, still wearing his cheerful mask as he closed the door. “Coffee? That is what you Americans prefer, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure. Coffee would be great,” James answered with a nervous chuckle as he settled in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “I guess Helen told you my name, but I don’t know yours.”</p>
<p>Tom cocked his head and searched James’ face with a furrowed brow. “Really? Hm.” He didn’t expound further, but instead made for the kitchen.</p>
<p>Liz followed him, grabbed his shirtsleeve. “He has nothing to do with this,” she pleaded in a hushed voice. “Please don’t hurt him.”</p>
<p>Tom stared down at her hand, features softening. “Contrary to what you might think of me, I’m not a monster,” he murmured, lacing his fingers with hers, brushing his thumb over her skin. “Of course I won’t hurt him.”</p>
<p>His affectionate touch, his placid voice constricted her chest with repressed longing for the man she had fallen in love with. She missed those days of blithe ignorance. For a fleeting breath, instinct nearly overtook her—the ingrained habit of rising on her toes and pressing her lips against his.</p>
<p>“Not without a compelling reason, anyway,” he said, dispelling the moment as he removed her hand from his arm. “Now, see to our guest, will you?”</p>
<p>She stared at him, unable to breathe, as if his chilling shift into calloused operative had been a physical blow. How could she have been so foolish to believe, even for a second, that he was anything like the warm, caring Tom she’d known?</p>
<p>She retreated from him without a word, jaw clenched over the fresh tears she refused to shed for him and the things he’d done.</p>
<p>“Are you sure everything’s okay?” James asked quietly when she joined him. He gave a significant glance in the direction of Tom—particularly at the gun protruding from the back of his slacks. “Is <em>he</em> okay?”</p>
<p>“He’s…” How did she explain Tom? As her ex-fiancé who had insinuated himself into her life for the sole purpose of apprehending her brother who, by the way, was committing treason? “He’s in law enforcement.” That was true enough, though she wasn’t certain that tracking her down had been sanctioned by MI6.</p>
<p>“Oh.” James forced a laugh. “He does kinda have that cop thing about him.”</p>
<p>But Tom hadn’t always had that demeanor, she almost said. Over the last several months, she had reviewed their time together ad nauseam, probing every smile and frown, every word he’d spoken for a missed clue of his true nature—some slip of his mask she overlooked because she was too mad about him. There had been nothing.</p>
<p>He wasn’t hiding now, though. She frowned. Why? Why had he invited James in? In fact— “James? What brought you over this morning?”</p>
<p>Eyes darting to the kitchen, James leaned forward and answered in a low voice. “You texted me.”</p>
<p>She stared at him as viscous understanding left a bitter tang in her mouth. “From my phone,” she replied slowly. James had been lured here. By Tom. “Listen,” she whispered with rising apprehension, “you need to lea—”</p>
<p>“Black, two sugars.”</p>
<p>She choked on her hasty warning, rattled by Tom’s sudden appearance. Her heart kept time with her shallow breaths as he handed James a steaming mug. She looked for veiled tension in Tom’s face, hardness in his eyes—any sign that he’d heard her weak attempt to interfere with his design. He sat next to her without a word, however, stretched his arm across the back of the sofa behind her, and the chills skittering across her skin took on an entirely new meaning.</p>
<p>James raised his drink in an uneasy half-salute. “Thanks. Lucky guess on how I take it.”</p>
<p>Tom peered at James as though he were a fascinating puzzle. “Was it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I..” James licked his lips, glancing at Liz. She gave him a subtle shake of her head, and he placed the mug on the coffee table. “I’ll just wait until that cools down a little.”</p>
<p>A shrug was Tom’s only response.</p>
<p>Charged silence followed, spoiled only by the noise of the mantle clock marking each passing second.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>James rubbed his palms down his thighs with an uncomfortable huff of laughter.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tom gave the other man a sedate smile, perfectly at ease.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>The rhythmic intonation reminded her of when her parents took her to Chessington as a young girl and she rode Dragon Falls for the first time. That clack, clack, clack as the boat inched closer to an inevitable drop.</p>
<p>She held her breath in petrified anticipation as she had then.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>“So,” James said, dragging out the word as though it might somehow alleviate the building pressure. “You two are old friends.”</p>
<p>“Actually,” Tom replied. “I’m her fiancé.”</p>
<p>“Ex-fiancé.” The correction tumbled from her lips before she could think better of it. She didn’t know the rules of this little intrigue he’d cooked up. Was she supposed to play along?</p>
<p>He waved a hand. “Details.” His finger drew a line across his upper lip, much the way it used to when he was lost in thought. “That does bring up an interesting discussion, though—one about commitment and promises. James, would you say that you’re a man of your word?”</p>
<p>James knit his brows together in confusion. “I’d like to think so.”</p>
<p>Tom sat up and pointed at him. “See, I like that. Integrity. I can respect it. You say you’ll do something and you do it.” He leaned forward, pinning James with an unblinking gaze. “I’m a man of my word too—perhaps, even, to a fault. There are so few of us left in the world, wouldn’t you agree?”</p>
<p>“Uh, sure.” James cast a helpless glance in Liz’s direction.</p>
<p>“And you’d also agree,” Tom went on, “that as, well, an endangered species, it’s imperative that we keep our promises?”</p>
<p>“I…yeah.” James seemed at an utter loss. His forehead glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and Liz silently willed her ex to end this ploy—whatever it was.</p>
<p>“Excellent.” Tom rose to his feet with a clap. “Speaking of promises,” he said as he crossed the room to retrieve a black leather briefcase by the door, “I made one to Liz after you arrived.”</p>
<p>“Liz?” James asked.</p>
<p>“Hm?” Tom frowned at him as he retook his seat, balancing the briefcase on his knees. “Oh yes, I’ve forgotten that we’re all pretending her name is Helen. My apologies.” He pressed his thumbs into the brass latches, and the case unlocked with a double click, though he didn’t open it. “Would you like to know what I promised our hostess, James?”</p>
<p>Liz’s pulse accelerated as she stared at the case. What kind of implements of torture, of murder lay within its confines?</p>
<p>“I promised,” Tom continued with unflappable calm, “that I wouldn’t hurt you, James—not without a compelling reason to do so. Now, you’re not going to give me that compelling reason, are you? Because I’d very much like to keep my word.”</p>
<p>James swallowed, his Adam's Apple bobbing as he, too, took immense interest in the briefcase. “I thought cops were supposed to serve and protect.”</p>
<p>Tom’s laugh was deep and raspy, like a predator amused by its prey’s futile efforts to flee. “Is that what she told you?” He glanced at Liz, smiled at her with just a hint of wistfulness in his expression before turning back to James. “I’m not a cop. I’m the sort of man the government sends when it doesn’t want to get its hands dirty.”</p>
<p>His frank admission sliced through Liz, lanced at the festering void left by her brother’s death. Is that all Avery had been? Some filthy inconvenience which they sent Tom to take care of?</p>
<p>He blew out a sigh, patting the top of the case. “Let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we? I’m going to ask you two questions, James—” he held up the corresponding number of fingers, “—and I want you to really ponder before answering. Because what you say next will determine whether or not I’m able to keep my promise to my beautiful fiancé, here”</p>
<p>Liz’s eyes rounded as her fear reached a new apex. “Tom—”</p>
<p>“Right.” He raised his hands. “<em>Ex</em>-fiancé. Details again. You were always so much better at remembering the little things. I love that about you.” The air bled from her lungs at the naked affection in his voice. He held her gaze for a beat, the line between his brows deepening as he mouthed two words:</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m sorry.</em>
</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>“First question,” he said, his expression transforming to steely detachment as he turned to James. “How many of you are there?”</p>
<p>James shook his head, hands curling over the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip. “Look, man, I’m… I’m not whoever you think I am.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Tom pressed his lips together as though genuinely perplexed. “You’re not the James Miller who moved into the flat across the way four months after Liz—<em>Helen</em>—took up residence here?”</p>
<p>“No!” James answered almost before Tom finished the question. “I mean, yes, I am her neighbor but those other things… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Tom slipped a hand inside the briefcase. “Think very carefully.”</p>
<p>“Tom, please,” Liz interjected in desperation. “You’re scaring him—you’re scaring <em>me</em>. Just let him go.”</p>
<p>“It’s all right, darling. This will only take a moment.” He gave her a smile—the endearing expression he had once used during his time as Tom Jones to mollify her negligible cares. “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong,” he said to James. “Perhaps you aren’t the James Miller I believe you to be. Perhaps—” He began to pull something out of the case.</p>
<p>“Tom, don’t!” she shouted at the same time James half rose from his seat, holding up a hand as he yelled, “Wait! Just wait!”</p>
<p>Tom raised a brow, eyes flicking from James to Liz and back again. “Jumpy, aren’t we? Do have a seat.”</p>
<p>He waited for the other man to lower himself into the chair before he said, “Thank you, James. Or should I call you Liam?” He handed Liz a passport.</p>
<p>She opened it, hands trembling with adrenalin. Inside was a photograph of James, but the name listed was Liam Coates. Irish national. She looked up at James, pouring the question into her gaze that she couldn’t bring herself to voice. He stared back at her, dumbfounded. And frightened.</p>
<p>“Or is it Jean Moreau?” Tom asked, dropping another passport into Liz’s lap. Two others followed. “Or Niklas Köhler? Or—and I really like this last one—Alexei Maslov? Having features which are interchangeable with so many nationalities is rather advantageous, I find. Though, I’m not sure I could pull off Russian quite so easily—not without a full beard and one of those ghastly fur caps.”</p>
<p>Liz leafed through all of the passports, insides churning with bleak comprehension. Unknowingly, she’d allowed another one to infiltrate her life. Another spy. She shoved the offending papers off of her lap as if they were poisoned.</p>
<p>“I probably should have warned you,” Tom said—not to her, but to James, “but she gets slightly fractious when she’s been betrayed.”</p>
<p>She glowered at Tom. “You were the worst. And still are.” Because James hadn’t tried to romance her. Because James hadn’t killed her brother.</p>
<p>Tom sucked in a breath through his teeth, grimacing. “I beg to differ, Liz. I really do.” He nodded toward her as he said to James, “See? Fractious. You’re in for it now, mate.”</p>
<p>“Helen, I swear I’ve never seen those before,” James beseeched, absolute terror contorting his features. “This guy is crazy! He must have—”</p>
<p>“James, James, James.” Tom narrowed his eyes, all trace of good humor evaporating. “Please, let’s not play these games. Else I’ll be forced to do something terribly uncouth in front of Liz.”</p>
<p>James dropped his head, crumpled in the chair in defeat, his shoulders wracked with muted weeping. Was he innocent after all? As if in answer to her unspoken question, Tom shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>“You’re as good as they say you are.” James looked up, mouth stretched in a cold smile. He hadn’t been weeping. He’d been laughing.</p>
<p>Tom had been right. Terrifying, sociopathic, murdering Tom had been right about a duplicitous man in her life. Again.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m much better than that.” He smirked as he sized up the other man. “Ah, Alexei. I’d say it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, but it’s really not.”</p>
<p>James—Alexei—shrugged. “You’ll never get out of here alive.”</p>
<p>Tom considered his words with a thoughtful frown. “That answers my first question, thank you,” he said, drumming his fingertips against the briefcase. “Since you’re being so forthcoming, will you indulge me one more?”</p>
<p>“Ask away.” Alexei chuckled, gesturing for Tom to go on.</p>
<p>“How were you planning to kill her? I assume you were given artistic license on that account.”</p>
<p>Liz gasped. Had he meant <em>her?</em> This man, who had become a good friend, was to take her life?</p>
<p>“I hadn’t decided yet,” Alexei answered with a quick glance in her direction. There was no warmth in his expression, only ruthless calculation. “My orders were to make her suffer.”</p>
<p>“I appreciate your honesty.” Tom bowed his head with a long sigh. “Shall we get to it, then?”</p>
<p>Alexei spread his hands, mirroring Tom’s relaxed confidence. “Whenever you’re ready.”</p>
<p>The second hand on the clock moved with a hollow click, slow, blaring, reverberating through the flat as the two men stared each other down.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>Tick.</p>
<p>Coffee table and briefcase tumbled across the room as both men leapt up. Silver flashed across her vision, followed by Tom hurtling toward Alexei with a feral growl. Fist swinging. Pounding the hilt of the knife he’d thrown deeper into his opponent’s shoulder. Something heavy clattered to the floor, and Alexei screamed.</p>
<p>No. Not Alexei. Liz. Liz was screaming.</p>
<p>Alexei smashed his head against Tom’s, and Tom staggered back with a curse, blinking as if to clear his vision.</p>
<p>Gritting his teeth, Alexei pulled the knife out, turned it over in his hand. “I’m going to kill you,” he spat, “and then I’m going to take my sweet time with her.”</p>
<p>“It’s good to set goals,” Tom replied, his breath ragged. “Succeed or die trying, I always say. Of course, you’ll be doing the latter.”</p>
<p>With a roar, Alexei lunged, blade carving down in a violent thrust. Tom stepped into the attack, deflected it with a sweep of his arm while chopping at his opponent’s throat with his other hand. Alexei stumbled backward, making a strangled sound, clawing at his neck.</p>
<p>Tom pulled out Liz’s gun, slid the chamber back and aimed it at Alexei. “Told you.”</p>
<p>He pulled the trigger.</p>
<p>Liz screamed again, hands flying to her ears.</p>
<p>Boom. Boom.</p>
<p>Boom.</p>
<p>It was so <em>loud.</em></p>
<p>And then deathly still.</p>
<p>She brought her hands down. Every muscle, every bone in her body quaked as she glanced at James—Alexei. She immediately turned away, trying to erase the image of him slumped wide-eyed in the armchair, wet crimson drenching his shirt, trickling in a thick rivulet down his forehead.</p>
<p>“He was going to kill me.” Her voice was raw, cracked.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Tom bent over, picked up a pistol lying at the foot of the chair. Not her Glock, but a different weapon. Alexei’s. With a deft movement, Tom released the clip, checked the bullets, and then slammed it back into the gun. He stashed it in the back of his slacks next to hers.</p>
<p>“There weren’t any bullets in mine,” she said. It was a ridiculous detail to mention, but the only one in this mayhem that she had the stomach to process. Hysteria lapped at the edges of her thoughts.</p>
<p>“I might have put them back.” He turned to her, his mouth drawn with concern as he looked her over. “You’re going into shock, darling—and not without good reason. However, I need you to stay with me. Because we’re not finished yet. Can you do that? Can you stay with me?”</p>
<p>“I don’t—” She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I can’t,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.</p>
<p>He stepped over the broken coffee table and knelt before her, taking her face in his hands. “You are the clever, resourceful, infuriatingly stubborn woman who captured and held at gunpoint one of the top intelligence agents in the world. You can do this.”</p>
<p>Resignation and fear tangled in her throat. She wanted to curl up in some dark cave and forget all of this horror. But she would have to survive first. She gave him an irresolute nod.</p>
<p>“There’s my girl,” he said with a tender smile. He pressed his lips to her forehead and rose to his feet, arming himself with both guns. “Now, would you be a dear and hide under the dining table?”</p>
<p>Targeting both the door and the large picture window behind Alexei’s body, Tom winked at her.</p>
<p>“Things are about to get really exciting.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Interlude First: Love Means Letting Go...For Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Victoria and Albert Museum, London, England</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Eight months before… </em>
</p><p>Tom slipped into the building fifteen minutes before closing, against the current of patrons making a dilatory exit. He flashed his credentials at the security guard who called after him as he made his way to one of the myriad of staircases. Here he was beset with a descending horde, laughing, chatting, pointing at the exquisite architecture of the building. He picked his way through the scattered groups, begging pardons with a genial smile. Charm and politeness drew less attention than brute force, though the latter better suited his mood.</p><p>The crowd thinned mercifully as he neared his intended destination and he picked up his pace, ascending two or three steps at a time with his long legs until he arrived at the third level. He navigated through the emptying exhibits, passing meticulous displays of sculptures, frescoes, and exorbitant jewelry, stopping when he reached the Edwin and Susan Davies Gallery.</p><p>Two weeks ago, he’d stood in this room, admiring the dozens of gilt-framed paintings which hung on the wine-colored walls. Liz had been with him, hand entwined with his as she made delighted exclamations over each piece. Her favorite had been the portrait of a young woman in the garden with her pet spaniel. “Maria” by Charles Landseer. They speculated over what might have made the girl so pensive. He made ridiculous suggestions; Liz swatted him on the arm with an exaggerated huff.</p><p>She had laughed, though. He loved her laugh.</p><p>He’d both loathed and lived for moments like that—when it was too easy to be Tom Jones, too hard to remember Tom Hiddleston.</p><p>But then, the façade had finally reached its inevitable conclusion, buckling under the weight of his obligation to the job—as ever.</p><p>This time, however, he hadn’t wanted it to.</p><p>Another man stepped up next to him. “I’ve always fancied ‘Maiden Meditation,’” he said.</p><p>Tom glanced at his companion, smirking at the dark suit which hung too loosely on his slender frame. After all these years, he still hadn’t been able to convince his friend—as close as he came to having a friend—of the virtues of good tailoring. “Only because she looks like your wife,” he replied.</p><p>“Thus proving my refined taste in both art and women.” Ben grinned.</p><p>Tom made an indistinct noise, but didn’t comment further. They hadn’t come here to exchange pleasantries or discuss paintings. “Did she take the bait?” he asked without preamble.</p><p>The other man’s smile dropped as he fell into his role as an austere SIS case officer. “Yes. Alice set up the meet with Daniel for her. It’s tonight.”</p><p>Tom nodded. “Good.”</p><p>“I really don’t see why all of this is necessary,” Ben said, dragging a hand through his hair, mussing the slicked-back curls. “We could have done it through the proper channels. She certainly qualified.”</p><p>Tom crossed the room, his footfalls echoing against the hardwood floors. He waited for Ben to join him before speaking. “She needs to feel safe. And right now, for her that means her lying, murdering ex-fiancé doesn’t have access to information on her whereabouts.”</p><p>Ben snorted. “But you will.”</p><p>“Of course I will.” Unconsciously, Tom’s hand went to his pocket, fingers playing with the small circle of gold and diamonds inside. He’d told Liz to keep it—to sell it, if she wanted—but she refused, said she didn’t need any further reminder of him and the horrible things he’d done. Her sharp, frank words had stung more than they ought to have.</p><p>Winning her over again would be a nearly insurmountable task—one he had every intention of conquering.</p><p>But not yet.</p><p>“I’ve an associate who will keep watch over her,” he said.</p><p>Ben’s face pinched in disgust. “Not that CIA prat who mucked things up in Bolivia. I don’t know how you can stand him.”</p><p>“It’s not a matter of liking the fellow,” Tom returned with a shrug. “I need someone I can trust, and I trust him. Men like that are in short supply in this business.”</p><p>Ben didn’t argue. Silence pervaded the gallery for several minutes as the two pretended to study the artwork. Tom’s gaze drifted to the nudes by William Etty. Liz had said the artist would never have made her woefully skinny self a subject—not unless she put on two stone. Laughing, Tom had wrapped his arms about her trim waist, rested his chin on her head and told her any painter would be daft not to want to capture her likeness, no matter her dress size.</p><p>It was exactly the sort of cloying romanticism which he’d been given to as a younger man, before life and career had remade him. And he’d meant every word.</p><p>Ben blew out a sigh. “Tom,” he began, “I know what you’re going to—”</p><p>“I want this one.” Tom looked at his friend, jaw muscles clenching.</p><p>“No. Absolutely not.” Ben shook his head. “You’re too emotionally invested.”</p><p>Tom’s answering laugh was clipped, humorless. “Me? Emotionally invested? I don’t think that’s physically possible.” <em>O, what a tangled web we weave… </em></p><p>“That’s bollocks and you know it.” Ben gave him a flat stare. “She’s changed you. Don’t deny it.”</p><p>“I won’t,” Tom said. He once thought of Liz as an infection, making him weak, soft with his growing need for her. But now, he knew better.</p><p>She was the cure.</p><p>“For all these years, I believed what made me such an exceptional intelligence officer,” he said more to himself than to Ben, “was that I had nothing but my vengeance. I could take the risks others wouldn’t because I don’t care—about anything.”</p><p>Steel deepened his voice with his next words. “Believe me when I tell you my single-minded determination from before is only a pittance compared to the resolve I have now.” He pinned Ben with a hard glare to drive his point home. “I have <em>everything</em> to lose in this gambit, and I. Don’t. Lose.”</p><p>Ben held up his hands. “I’m not questioning your commitment.”</p><p>“Then give me the job.” Tom tugged on his shirt cuffs with a casual air. It was always better to issue threats with a calm demeanor—people inexplicably took them more seriously—and he was about to deliver a considerable one. “If you don’t, I will go rogue and take care of it myself.”</p><p>Ben wore an expression of disbelief. Tom Hiddleston, MI6 superstar, may have colored outside the lines from time to time, but he’d always been unconditionally loyal to the service. Loyalties, however, had an odd way of evolving.</p><p>“You’re a damn arsehole,” Ben said after a beat, fingers raking through his hair again. It was his tell; he was folding. “You’re going to drive me to smoke again.”</p><p>“But Lilly is so much more frightening than I am.” Tom smiled as he thought of the fierce petite woman and the hell she would rain down on her husband should she catch a whiff of burnt tobacco on him.</p><p>Ben looked heavenward in exasperation. “It’s a wonder I’m not in an early grave between the two of you.” He sighed, measuring Tom with a pensive gaze. “If you’re decided, then—”</p><p>“Unequivocally.”</p><p>Ben closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. <em>Fine.</em> I’ll get the clearance. You had better not make me regret this, Tom. Because it’s not just your arse on the line.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m intimately aware of what’s on the line,” Tom replied with grim honesty. He offered his hand to shake. “Thank you.”</p><p>Ben gave his hand a curt pump, but didn’t let go. Instead he drew Tom in closer and said in a low voice, “Destroy them.”</p><p>“Thoroughly,” Tom promised.</p><p>He remained in the gallery for a few minutes more after Ben had gone, until a security guard sternly told him it was past time for leaving. Tom smirked at the man with a tin badge, but allowed himself to be ushered from the museum.</p><p>The familiar thrill of adrenaline-induced anticipation suffused his veins, seeped into his sinews.</p><p>Destroying the bastards would be a kindness, and he wasn’t feeling particularly generous. No, he would <em>erase</em> them.</p><p>And then he would see to Liz.</p>
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